


Just like your father

by Eye_of_Purgatory



Series: Just Like Your Father [1]
Category: Avatar: The Last Airbender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst, Angst and Feels, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, Bodyswap, Both at once, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hurt, Hurt Zuko (Avatar), Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Mental Health Issues, Ozai (Avatar) Being a Terrible Parent, Ozai (Avatar) is an Asshole, POV Zuko (Avatar), Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Violence, Young Azula, Young Zuko, Zuko (Avatar)-centric, Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-23
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:34:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28942299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eye_of_Purgatory/pseuds/Eye_of_Purgatory
Summary: Zuko is thrown back in time to the fateful Agni Kai, but not as himself, as Ozai. He struggles through the world wearing a new face, so much pain uncovered that never really left.It’s harder to convince himself this is a nightmare as it continues, he’s never had this much control in them before.His mouth doesn’t form words, and his body doesn’t move. His fingertips reach the absolutely burning skin of the child -the whole room is burning up, how did he not notice before- and he jerks his arm away. Something about this isn’t right, isn’t possible, isn’t real.This isn’t a nightmare.“Get the healers!”
Relationships: Azula & Zuko (Avatar), Iroh & Zuko (Avatar), Ursa & Zuko (Avatar)
Series: Just Like Your Father [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2132652
Comments: 151
Kudos: 257





	1. The Agni Kai

**Author's Note:**

> Like the fandom, I too enjoy hurting my favorite characters. Enjoy, It was fun writing this.

His hand is burning, burning hot and pressed to another’s skin. Zuko tugs away as soon as his hand responds. Everything smells like burning flesh, everything is surreal, he hasn’t even opened his eyes yet.

But when he does, the world is new and bright. He looks down at his own face, young and innocent, freshly burned. Zuko barely notices that now he sees through both of his eyes clearly, something he almost forgot the experience of. He weakly raises his right arm to his face, staring detached at the way blood and viscera clings to his palm.

This is a nightmare.

Not one he has ever had before, always kneeling in front of the monolith that he once called ‘Father’. He looks around, Uncle is looking away, but Azula stares. Nobody dares to move, himself least of all.

“Fa-ather…” The boy in front of him rasps out, directing Zuko to his younger self. The damage makes him feel ill, never having seen the scar until it was weeks old, but he has seen enough fresh burns to know. This one is worse than he could have ever imagined, “I-i-i-m sorry” the boy sobs. Zuko falls to his knees without meaning to, tentatively reaching out for the child. 

It’s harder to convince himself this is a nightmare as it continues, he’s never had this much control in them before.

His mouth doesn’t form words, and his body doesn’t move. His fingertips reach the absolutely burning skin of the child -the whole room is burning up, how did he not notice before- and he jerks his arm away. Something about this isn’t right, isn’t possible, isn’t real.

This isn’t a nightmare.

“Get the healers!”

Ozai’s voice comes out of his mouth.

He can’t stop himself from running, walking as fast as he can while his head swirls and his eyes deceive him. The Agni Kai chamber fades behind him like a bad dream, all noise fading into one loud and continuous explosion.

The passages are the same, they twist and turn but he has been Firelord for the last decade. A brisk walk turns into running as his feet start to listen, turning corners and bursting through doors on his way to his chambers. Ozai’s chambers. He is Ozai?

The Firelord’s chambers lie in front of him. An entryway of gold and dragons, a small piece of sanctuary.

He charges through the entrance, feeling heavy doors slam behind him. Zuko closes his eyes, regains some sense of his bearings. He knows there is a mirror here, because he remembers throwing it to the ground when he took the Fire Lord’s chambers for himself. The layout the room used to be in is burned into his brain, whether he likes it or not, the endless red curtains and needless grandeur. Burned into his brain just like the sight of himself writhing in pain underneath his fist is now.

Zuko finally feels brave enough to open his eyes, to look into the mirror and not have himself look back. He faintly realizes this is the calmest he’s ever been looking at Ozai, but maybe that’s just because his father’s face never stopped scowling at him. Maybe that’s because Zuko has never seen his father like this, even in the prison Ozai seemed larger than life, but he was never able to achieve that air about himself.

The first thing he does is burn off the beard, because there is something so revolting about looking like his father.

A portrait is never as real as a face, and his father never looked quite the same after his defeat. But when Zuko looks in the mirror now, he is eerily similar.

When he raises a shaky hand to his left eye, covering half the face, the similarity is more striking. 

There is blood on his hands, a thick layer of gore covering the palm and seeping into the cracks of the skin. He suddenly can’t stand the idea. Zuko hurries to the washroom he’s now used for years, to the basin filled with water, and presses his hands inside. The water fills red with blood as he scrubs at his skin, until he can’t see past his wrists. His hands faintly start to hurt, but he keeps scrubbing, because he can’t bear the idea of taking his hands out of the water and them still being covered with blood. He can’t stand it. He just can’t. Zuko continues until the sting on his palms is almost unbearable, until every part he can feel prickles, until he has washed the underside of his fingernails more times than he cares to count.

He pulls his hands out of the water and sees they’re rubbed pink, clean even of the top layer of skin. But they still feel dirty. They aren’t his hands. His hands have faint scars from practicing with a dao, from fighting, and from firebending. He has thirty-seven scars on his hands, fourteen on his left and twenty-three on his right. These hands are different, the fingers are different lengths, and between the webbing of his left thumb and forefinger there is a pronounced and old burn scar. These are Ozai’s hands, so in a way, they’re still covered in blood.

He dips Ozai’s hands in the water again, scrubbing at the skin with a renewed vigor. He obsessively cleans, and cleans, and cleans until all he does is cry. Cries into the bloodied waters of the water basin because he thought he was better than this, he thought he was normal, he thought he was alright. For the first time in his life he thought he was healthy, mind and out, but that was wrong. He thought he was ready to have a child, to start a family. He was wrong. He’s a fool that should be treated as such. 

Nobody comes for him, because the people around here don’t know him. They aren’t the ones who for months would go into his chambers and remind him that a tired Firelord can’t work well, that he needs to eat because people need to eat and he can’t be the Firelord when he’s dead. They aren’t the ones who saw him cry when Ozai died because even though he was horrible, even though he killed so many, even though Ozai was the one who burned him then banished him, he was still his father. Because he always thought that maybe, one day, Ozai would be better. That they could be a real family, even though he knew that was impossible and felt like an idiot for even letting his subconscious entertain the idea. 

Standing up is firebending in the eclipse. But when he manages it, the task was never worth it in the first place.

His feet carry him around, aimlessly.

Everything hurts?

Ozai’s face looks in the mirror and can’t decide between laughing and crying, his face is streaked with water, tears, and blood. His hands are the same, bleeding from new cuts that he rubbed into his skin. He wipes at his face with some lavish blanket laying on the floor, and gently lays it on the floor, because even at such a point Zuko is not the same angry teenager he once was. 

He looks back, less ridiculous this time, at the mirror. This time he focuses on the top knot, which he roughly rips from his head. He doesn’t deserve the honor, not now. 

Time slips away, but he can barely find it in himself to care. 

He stands in the hallways, people avoid him like the plague he is. This is the route to the medical wing, which he continues to follow.

Zuko reaches the infirmary door, pulling it open in a haze of fear, panic, and detachment. He needs to see himself, he needs to, he just needs. The door flies open, however slow or fast he could not see, because time is a concept he cannot truly grasp. The smell of the room is almost comforting, the same scent of mint that hasn’t changed and seemingly never will. The floor is cold, enough that Zuko dimly realizes he is wearing no shoes. 

“Haven’t you done enough?” A sharp voice snaps him out of the haze he found himself in, Zuko looks over to see his Uncle. The familiar man is sitting next to himself, a small child wrapped in blankets that makes him look so very small. The bandages cover most of the face, only leaving skin around the right eye uncovered. 

Zuko looks back to his Uncle, glaring at him with such unrivaled hate that all he can manage is shock. The man who had been the only person who cared for him for so many years hating him makes Zuko feel as if his existence had been slowly dismantled over the course of a fraction of a second. It's as if he was sixteen again, sitting in front of a cell and feeling so, so small. The world spins under him, and it takes all the effort in the world not to cry.

“I-h” he can’t even manage words.

“Excuse me for my outburst my lord.” Iroh spits venom instead of words, pointedly turning his head away from him, and to his younger self. 

A voice whispers into his ear, “My son.” In his father’s voice. He turns around to nobody. 

Zuko flees the room instead of turning back around.


	2. Guilty Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko tries to connect with his family while trapped in Ozai's body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zuko is not having a good time.

He doesn’t wake up with the sun, sluggishly opening his eyes at some unknown time of day. The sun streams through the window with a special intensity, casting gorgeous shadows around the somewhat destroyed room.

He stands up slowly, only now truly comprehending that for the first time in years he can see out of both his eyes. There is something special about depth perception he never noticed before, so he drinks in the sights around him. He simply knows where everything in the room is in relation to each other, he knows the size of objects far away, everything is crisp. He can see in peripheral vision around his head, a field of view so stunning he can’t think of anything else.

Walking is difficult when he focuses on it, and Zuko’s nothing if not constantly overthinking. He tries to walk a few steps to the other side of the room, stumbles, and catches himself on a decorative column.

When his hand touches the surface, Zuko feels the sting of pain. He looks down to the bloody scabs covering his palms, and snaps out of the good mood. The world he sees now is the one just taken from a child, a child who will never be the same.

“Traitor.” Is said in Ozai’s voice. Zuko can’t tell if he said it or not.

He leaves the room in a rush, pushing open the heavy, lonely doors. He wanders, hoping for peace of mind to overwhelm him. Hoping for the constant screaming worry will quiet. Hoping for the strength to do what he must, to do his duty, to save the world.

Zuko pauses on his way through the halls when he sees a familiar sight, letting the stream of people run around him. At this moment he is simply a cog in the universal machine, nobody connects the disheveled man in front of them to the Firelord. They could never miss him before.

The turtleduck pond stands there as it always has, a gorgeous centerpiece to a garden full of stunning décor. The turtle ducks themselves explore as much as they are able, he can see a few of them testing the limits of their captivity, waddling near the walls of this portion of the garden. 

Zuko finds himself walking to the pond almost in a daze. He remembers coming back here and seeing the faint scars of burn marks on the bottom of the pond, ones that never washed out. There is something ethereal about the turtle ducks he makes his way towards, something captivating. He reaches out before he can think harder, before he remembers that turtle ducks are skittish, before he remembers they have long memories.

They flee from him.

Zuko is reminded that he is in Ozai’s body violently, in a way that makes him want to tear his skin off. To peel his skin off slowly, so that he may feel the pain at having burned a child, enough so that maybe his real self will be hidden there underneath. Secondary to that, he wants to vomit, because of the inherent wrongness of remembering just whose face he wears. His fingernails are short and carefully manicured, but he can still dig what is remaining into his arm, not to tear, not if he can help it.

“Father!” He turns around to see Azula, running to him, just a child. She’s so small, just eleven years old, just a little girl. She beelines for him, recognizing him so soon even though he stands with his hair down, his clothes inconspicuous, and in a general state of distress. Maybe Azula had troubles with empathy and emotional recognition when she was a child, the doctors he entrusted her to said such.

Zuko tries to compose himself, “Azula.” he croaks out weakly, gazing down at the little girl who so eagerly looks up at him. He was supposed to have a child in the last timeline, will that baby ever be born, will he ever be there to see them? Seeing Azula makes him feel like a father already, the overwhelming concern for the child in front of him is proof enough.

“I’ve mastered the form Father, the one you used on Zuko!” Azula then demonstrates, holding her hand out with a relaxed stance, before engulfing the hand in a chilling blue flame. “I did it all on my own, without my instructors helping me!” She boasts.

He finds himself temporarily unable to breathe, just looking down at his sister so small, so young. 

Azula continues proudly, “The instructors are idiots, I don’t know how they even got their mastery. I know more about fire-bending than they do.”

“I’m sure Azula.” Zuko knows it as well, remembers when Azula gained her mastery a few months prior to his banishment, remembers the private tutors who were burned when they failed at blocking Azula’s flames. 

“Are you proud?”

He finds himself stumbling over his words, “Yes, I am proud of you. But I was wrong.” He kneels down, “What I did was awful, and don’t you think there was anything redeeming about that at all. We’re family. We’re supposed to be there for eachother.” He almost makes himself cry at the idea of his father saying these words, but Azula is stoic.

“Father, Zuko disrespected you. This is the honor-” She protests, her face twisted in a childish sort of scowl. 

“Azula.” He says pleadingly, “Please, nothing about honor. There is nothing to justify burning Zuko, there is no justification that could ever meet that act.”

“Father.”

“Azula, I love you.” Zuko says this as himself, from the aching hole in his heart left there when Azula ran away and never returned, “And I’m sorry.” He breathes, remembers that he is in the body of Ozai, “For making you think you ever had to earn it.”

. . .

  
  


He hears the door open to the dining room, Zuko does not look up, but instead busies himself with pouring tea. Both a peace-offering and tradition, but mainly just to calm himself down. He had doubted he could ever look his Uncle in the eyes. After what he did. After what HE did.

“Ozai.”

“Please, sit down.” Zuko says, so glad Iroh heeded the summons that he doesn’t note the tone of voice, “Thank you for coming here.” The tea cups he uses are ones he has never seen before, decorated to look like half of a dragon’s egg. They are made of white jade, of gold, of silver, of more wealth than an Earth kingdom farmer would see in a year. He feels ill. Perhaps these pieces of art were broken by Azula, cast out on the day of the comet like the servants that tended to them. Perhaps his father threw them in a fit of rage, as he did nearing the end of his life. Perhaps the cup was broken by a servant, the poor soul cast out of the palace with a family now doomed to be destitute, to be ruined. Zuko swallows his thoughts, looking away as he serves the cup to Iroh.

Uncle takes the tea handed to him, holding it delicately to sniff the liquid inside, “Jasmine.” he remarks, but does not drink the offering.

Zuko’s mind turns to the worst, a panicked rush of thoughts that makes it hard to speak, “I haven’t poisoned you,” he says, mouth suddenly bone dry, “if you want, we can switch tea cups.” He offers, holding out his tea-cup so that Uncle could take it if he wanted. His hand lightly clasps the teacup, like his hand burning off a face. 

“I would never accuse you of such a thing.”

Zuko tries to ignore how Uncle does not drink the tea, he ignores the tense air of the room and tries to imagine it another time, “Do you believe in time travel?” He carefully ventures to ask, drinking his tea in to hide his uneasy expression.

“The spirits work in mysterious ways, but I don’t believe any of them can alter time itself.” 

Ozai’s voice interrupts again, “You’re delusional.” It says, biting, viscous. Zuko does not bother to look up to the empty space.

“Right. Yes.” Something breaks in him, a small thread of hope reaching out to his Uncle unconditionally. He knows, he should have known, that this situation is so completely absurd. He will not acknowledge the possibility this is all in his head, because to accept that is to abandon all hope. He speaks, barely managing to stop himself right as he starts to say ‘Uncle’, “Iroh, I need your help.”

“Forgive me if I am reluctant to do what you ask of me.”

Zuko has rehearsed this line countless times, “I need you to help me end the war.” rolls off his tongue, charismatic and smooth and smug and just like Ozai.

“What inspired this? I never knew you had any inclinations to sign peace deals, brother.”

Zuko bites back the response just at the tip of his tongue, “Please, Iroh I am serious about this. I.” He tries to swallow, but his throat is painfully dry, “I know about the white lotus, I know about your political allies, I know you want to end the war too. Please just help me, I beg you.” Some time during his plea, Zuko had slid to the floor. Kneeling as he doesn’t bother to look up to his Uncle, just barely holding everything together. Once again, on his knees and begging.

“The willows bend to the wind. But when the mighty tree bends, it breaks.”

Zuko looks up to his Uncle, to his eyes for the first time, “Ozai, I will help you make peace with the nations.” he looks to the open contempt in his eyes, and something resembling pity.

Pity is better than hate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all, hope you liked this chapter! It would mean alot to me if you commented, It really makes my day. The next chapter should come out on Wednesday! I wish you all a wonderful day, a nice week, and an uneventful year.


	3. Unwelcome Redemption

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Upon an assassination attempt, Zuko starts to heal. But growth isn't always linear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Zuko has a no good, very bad day.

The sounds of the window opening jolts Zuko out of his sleep, he opens his eyes.

Just in time to dodge the flying knife. 

Zuko jumps out of the bed to his feet, assessing the moment quickly. There is an assassin, slight and dexterous, likely a woman. This lady is a firebender, she holds the pose to block attacks. She has more knives on her belt, and likely elsewhere too.

She sends flames to his left side, Zuko takes the fireblast and redirects it back at the assassin in a blur of blue and gold. 

Her failed block causes it to explode in her face. Zuko uses the distraction to send more bolts at her legs, too low to block and too quick to dodge. 

She takes the hit, but does not fall. She sends a series of weak blasts, using the distraction to throw knives as well. Three miss, and one scrapes by his arm.

He pushes a wall of flame at her, engulfing the assassin in multicolored fire. Before she can recover, he sends another blast to her legs.

Another to her heart.

Another to her arms.

Another to her eyes.

Another to her hands.

Another to her.

Another to her.

Another to her.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Another.

Until the room is an oven.

Until the curtains burn.

Until all smells like ash.

Until he can feel his thoughts again.

Until she is nothing but ash.

Time snaps back like the sharp tug of a spring, like a slap to the face. Zuko once again looks upon the room, and once again feels the blood of his wound run down his arm. 

He should have expected this sooner.

This is nothing new, he could say he lost count of the assassination attempts, but that would be a lie. Forty six. Forty six times somebody tried to kill him, fifty four assassins dead. She is nothing new. Forty seven now, and fifty five. 

He should have stopped himself, but there's nothing he can do when time slips away from him, like the avatar did long ago. Whoever was trying to kill him will send another person, maybe then he will stop himself in time to find out who. The instigator was likely someone of high status, perhaps one of the generals who has cause to hate him, perhaps one of the war profiteers who staff the court more than crabs do ember island. They are likely one of the people who tried to kill him last life, so he can start the investigation with a list he knows by heart. Perhaps, even, the assassin was one he killed last time as well. Would that reduce the amount of people he has killed in the attempts by one? It doesn’t matter anyway. He has killed the fifty five times all the same.

He stumbles out of the chambers, under-dressed and distressed. If he looks, he swears he can still see blood on his hands. Blood that is not the blood seeping from the cut on his arm. The hallways are scattered with people, those obviously not brave enough to enter his room with the sounds of fire ringing through the walls. The movement stops, as the servants pause to look at him. Zuko must be a sight, ash covered, bleeding, and Ozai. He belatedly wonders why there were no guards around his room, whether it was Ozai’s will, or a conspiracy to plot murder. Zuko doesn’t know which one is worse, which one to believe. 

He looks around the hall, regretfully not knowing a single face from the crowd, “There was an assassination attempt.” Zuko states calmly, almost detached. When none of the people say or do anything, he continues, “Can any of you clean the room?” He feels awful making somebody else clean up that mess, but each moment in this past is another moment he can spend instituting and changing laws. Each day is precious. He feels that in his bones, even though his heart goes out to the palace staff.

Nobody speaks, everyone is frozen except for him, “Please?” Zuko then asks, hoping to garner a response, “I am sorry to burden you with this, I know you have too much work to do already. If there’s anything I can do to repay you, tell me, and I will try my best”

With that he leaves, taking a direct and chillingly familiar route to the fire temple. The halls are empty of all but the servants, the sun hasn’t risen so most firebenders are asleep. Without the sun, sparsely placed torches light the hallway, barely enough to navigate around by. Many of the people he passes don’t notice who he is, too busy in the rhythm of work to pay attention to people walking the servant's passages before dawn. 

He arrives soon, having taken a path optimized for time, taken so often that the steps are burned into his mind. He can see the building, large, red, intimidating. And without a single other soul around, he enters.

The fire temple is a glorious place, high ceilings to allow for the sacred flame, walls dripping from decorations which are priceless due to age, floors a smooth and flame resistant obsidian. The center of the room holds an enormous basin, holding dragon fire that has burned since the first firelord’s reign. He marvels at such, the flame of his time had blown out during an attempted coup, and was re-lit by Druk. Perhaps the same happened long ago, and the details had been lost to time, perhaps the fire here was actually lit by Fang. 

Zuko pulls himself together, concentrates, and slowly starts his ritual. For each assassination attempt, Zuko places a flame around the air. With peace of mind, they burn on their own, as if they lit the wick of invisible candles. For each, he thanks Agni, because without the great spirit he would have died on the first one. 

Forty seven lights soon burn around the room, like stars to Agni, they pull from his power to decorate the sky. Like the stars, he hopes Agni will see them and smile. 

“Ozai.” Zuko startles, jumps, whips around in a way that extinguishes the lights. Fearing the worst, he holds his hands up to firebend, cursing his rotten luck. But this is not the case. Uncle Iroh stands at the door to the temple, the sun rising behind him, “I did not know you to be the pious one.” 

“I’m not.” Zuko says, just now feeling the painful pounding of his heart against his ribs. 

“Then what brings you here?” Uncle walks over to him, staring at Zuko with open contempt. It feels as if Uncle unraveled his skin, removed his bones, just to burn his heart. He knows that Iroh sees Ozai, the man who just a few weeks ago burnt his son. He knows, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“Assasination attempt. Have to thank Agni.” He justifies, looking away from Uncle so he doesn’t have to see the disapproval, the open hate. He looks at his hands, the palms are stained red with blood. Is it his?

Uncle stays silent, maybe he wonders why Zuko is so calm at this moment. Maybe Uncle mistakes the fiercely protected fear that festers uncontrolled in his mind for malice. He knows that he wears the skin of a monster, and used to think his own skin was the same. He thinks to the scroll of Sozin, the one that made him realize long ago that maybe he wasn’t all bad. That maybe his fate was different than he thought all along. He knows where it is, but his younger self may never see it.

With sharp movements, and a sort of hurried anxiety, he stands up on Ozai’s legs. He looks to the door with Ozai’s eyes, and leaves the room containing Ozai’s brother. 

Dragonbone Catacombs. 

He arrives there, as if he suddenly appeared. The time before fades out of his memory, a uniquely terrifying occurrence.

Zuko finds himself transfixed to the room where his father was buried, the open , empty, cold tomb. He looks over to the walls in which he will rest one day, in his body, with his life. He looks between them. In one of these he will lie, unmoving, dead. 

He feels like he’s wearing a corpse.

Fire lord Ozai’s resting place is just like the day he died, when the Fire sages asked him if he wanted his Father buried here. Cold and alone, so very empty, the walls covered in dust and grime. 

“I’m not dead.” Zuko hears the whisper of Ozai’s voice, looks over to see the man standing there. Zuko knows he isn’t real, he knows that better than he knows anything else.

“Don’t think you can ignore me Zuko.” He growls, “You’re a disappointment to your nation, the son that I should have killed long ago.”

The Fire Lord of the new fire nation glares, gathers his bravery, “No.” He states, looking into the eyes of Ozai, Fire lord of the atrocities, of compassion’s failure, “I am not beholden to you. You are nothing. You are nothing but a sad man who never bothered to love his family.”

“I owe nothing to you.” The man stands his ground.

“You will learn respect, and suffering will be your teacher.” Zuko stands deathly still as his father -no, the hallucination of his father- walks closer to him, hand extended. The hand hovers just next to his cheek, but Zuko stares his father in the eyes. He is brave, he knows the man in front of him is not really there.

When the hand alights in blinding light, Zuko panics. All he can feel in that moment is all the fear he pretends he doesn't have rushing to his mind. His heart hurts, his mind burns, his eyes sting. 

Zuko falls to the floor, hitting the ground suddenly. His limbs are numb, his mind weak, his eyes unfocused. When he looks back up, the specter of his father has disappeared, gone like a candle extinguished. Zuko lifts a hand to his cheek, brushing over skin so sickeningly smooth.

He looks down at his palms, covered in small scratches from catching himself on the floor. In the dark light he can’t tell if they’re covered in dirt, or blood. 

He tears himself away from the claustrophobic walls that threaten to tear the corpse he wears from him, consuming it like a hungry spirit.

Sozin’s tomb is easy to spot, the room circular and large, standing at the very end. Sozin had walled off all the tombs before his own, making him feel like a founding deity. A sort of incomprehensible figure where all evil stems from, the bastion of the fire nation’s past. 

On the altar, just like he remembers from years ago, the scrolls lay. Sozin’s last will and testament, carefully copied out while the originals lay in the tomb. They are light, they are decorative, Zuko’s palms leave them slightly bloody on the edges. He wraps the scrolls up gently, attaching a ribbon on the end with a small note.

_ Your Great-Grandfathers: Sozin and Roku. _

He turns around from the tomb, walking back through the catacombs. He doesn’t look over to the door of Ozai’s future tomb, that he may rest in one day, even though he feels eyes on him. 

The tunnels are so ethereally long, as if the Fire Lords would rule until Agni themself died, until they could no longer grant humans the gift of flame. He hopes with all of his heart that whatever happens, the people live happy, and the spirits calm. That maybe, there will never be another Sozin. 

He hopes there will never be another Ozai.

With little fanfare, present in the moment like he rarely is in this body, Zuko walks through the palace. He ascends the stairs with Fire Sages on either side, he walks the halls with his people, nobody looking his way. Just another man, in casual clothes, hair down and messy, covered in a thin layer of grime. 

Zuko lightly knocks on the medical wing door when he arrives, standing there still as if stalling for time.

“Uncle? You can come in.” Zuko almost can’t breathe for a moment, doesn’t want to smash the little happiness the boy had, the little security of his scarred self. He almost runs. Instead, Zuko carefully opens the door.

“F-father. I-Im sorry father. I should have been a better so-”

“Stop.” Zuko can feel the wavering in his voice, he can see that it does nothing to calm the boy in front of him. He just gets scared, because what else did Zuko expect? He came in here with a terrible plan, a terrible thought, and it would have been better if he never tried in the first place. 

“I-h. Here you go.” Zuko hands his younger self the scroll, taking care to not touch the other’s skin, “You don’t only have monsters in your blood.”

He stops just before he leaves the room, gives in to something deep inside him -probably there as long as he can remember- with a few words, “I am proud of you,” he pauses, forces himself to say his own name, “Zuko.”

. . .

Zuko buries himself in work, of everything he has to do to make a peace better than the one before. He knows the benefits of being an established FireLord when making change, that every mistake is not met with blades pointed at his neck hungry for blood. When you have been on the throne long enough, the people often accept your judgement on the nation, Zuko knows that in his bones.

But he has no Avatar with him this time, and he knows he won’t bring Aang into this now. Zuko is experienced, Zuko is capable, he doesn’t have to drag a child through this again. He wants the world to be a better one when Aang awakens. He wants there to be hope, he wants to stop all the death he can. He can’t wait for the Avatar to help him this time.

The Earth Kingdom generals agreed to the armistice until the peace treaties are signed. Conflicts around the borders have stopped, and he orders his troops to retreat to the colonies. The truce is delicate, even a single fight could drive the whole area into uncontrolled war. He orders his generals as such, that any clashes with the local population will result in an immediate court-martial.

The ambassador to the Earth King is due to arrive later in the day, and by that time Zuko will have a comprehensive plan for reparations in the Earth Kingdom. He knows not to present that as a first option, so the first plan he presents will be significantly more in favor of the Fire Nation. In both plans the independence of the colonies is included, he will not compromise on that idea. 

There is no avatar this time, and the might of fire nation atrocities still hangs over the head of the ambassadors. So they’re likely to accept his course of action, likely to bend far more to his will than they ever would before. Ten years on the throne have also taught him balance, that the Earth Kingdom still stands strong, that they won’t accept anything too far in their disfavor. 

Light steps interrupt his thoughts, his work. He waits the time it takes the person to open the doors to his chambers, “My lord?” they quietly ask him, “The ambassadors await you in the wa-peace room.”

“Send for Iroh.”

. . . 

“Long Feng.” Zuko bows at the wait, as is appropriate for ambassadors, but not rulers, “I welcome you to the fire nation.” He respectfully greets, feeling Uncle at his side. Comforting even now.

“Fire Lord Ozai, Prince Iroh.” Long Feng greets back, a half-dozen ‘ambassadors’ behind him. 

Zuko smiles as he has not since he was in his own body, “As is said, there is no war in Ba-Sing-Se.” He carefully watches Long Feng, and the Dai Li at his side. His smile turns into one more calm and diplomatic, “How about we make that a reality.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Damn this is the longest chapter I've written for this. The next chapter should come out on Friday! I hope you liked this, I hope you comment, it makes my day. I try to respond to every comment (If you didn't notice), and I hope you all have a wonderful day, and an uneventful year.


	4. The Mother of Faces and the Mother of Zuko

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko seeks out his mother, as he did last life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a bit less angsty than the others, Zuko is not having a terrible time!

The Fire lord and his ‘children’ stand in the plaza of a small town known as Hira’a. Palace guards watch for danger, barely in sight, interacting with the townspeople happily. The day is young and clear, Agni’s soft light shining down on all of the appreciative people below.

“Is there a Noren here?” Zuko asks a nice looking woman drinking tea outside. Out of his left eye, seeing Zuko far away, while Azula sticked close to him. The child was bumping into things occasionally, face still wrapped in a hospital’s worth of bandages, while one of the more paternal guards watched over him. As Zuko acclimated to having two eyes, his child counterpart acclimated to one. 

She draws his attention back with a clear and cheerful voice, “Yes! He lives just down the road,” The helpful woman points to the house he already knew about, the house he entered a lifetime ago. 

“Thank you.” He smiles genuinely, he waves, gesturing to the guards to follow. The Fire Lord walks the short distance to the gorgeous house, Azula trailing farther to stay with his child self. He cannot hear them, only the memories that echo through his mind.

When faced with the humble door, Zuko knocks.

There is immediate movement within the house, a scrambling of someone to move to the door. Soon, it swings open, revealing a cheerful face of Ikem, or Noren as he now goes. His expression sours into fear at the sight of Zuko’s face, “Fire Lord Ozai!” He does not run, though, “Are you here to kill us?” His mother comes to the commotion, holding a young, sleeping babe in her arms.

“No!” Zuko shouts in Ozai’s voice, abrupt and slightly panicked, “I am here to lift Ursa’s banishment. So that she can see her children.” Even that sounds wrong, he can feel their disapproving eyes on him, their fear, their hate, their anger.

Zuko’s voice comes from behind him, closer than he ever imagined the child would get to him, “Mom?” he asks hesitantly, looking at her face. He warned the children that their mother would have a different face, that she would go by Noriko.

“She’s replaced us Zuzu, get a brain.” Azula responds bitterly, like a child just begging for the love of her mother. Zuko hopes his own child will never have to feel like that, so small, so fragile, so alone. He doesn’t reach out to Azula, not wanting to make things worse with the body he unwillingly occupies.

“No! You always lie.” Child Zuko shouts back, panicked like his older self. The boy turns to his mother even more hesitant than before, “Mom?” he asks softly, his good eye tearing up.

The elder Zuko takes the conversation again, “Noriko, It is your choice. The mother of faces took your memories as well as your face. I am not here to force you to become who you once were.” he says, as rehearsed, “I am not here to force you into anything.” he continues. His mother holds his younger sister, Kiyi, tighter. She is barely larger than a newborn, not the rambunctious teen he last saw.

“What if we don’t believe you.” The man, Ikem, Noren, his mother’s husband, says bitterly. He places himself like a sacrifice to the gods, between them as if blocking his path for just a moment would save her. He protects her from a danger she choose to forget about, from the monster of a man he sees the face of.

“I cannot prove anything but my actions.” He says softly, trying not to be aggressive or forceful, although the fearful anger of his youth threatens to rear up. “Maybe the recent peace will tell you something.” He tries, because the Earth kingdom has been formally at peace for the last month. It’s the only thing he feels can prove to himself he’s not really Ozai, he’s really not insane.

“Noren, my love. These are my children, and I don’t know them. I must be a horrible mother.” Zuko looks up to his mother, behind her he can see a vision of his father. This time he does not talk, he sneers, as if that would be able to make him real. The Fire Lord ignores this as he has his other delusions.

He does not speak, just watching the husband and wife in front of him communicate silently. 

“Yes,” his mother says, giving her husband the baby in her arms. Kiyi just happily gurgles, not knowing the tense atmosphere of the world around her, “I will go with you.”

“Noriko, be safe.” Noren/Ikem says, “Please, promise me that.”

“I will, my dear. Watch the children when we are gone.” With that solemn promise, Zuko leads his mother out of the house. The guards do not follow them, but instead stay with the children, with Noren, Ikem. He watches, for just a moment, as Zuko and Azula relax around their stepfather.

The walk to the forgetful valley is tense, his mother follows as if she is being led to her execution. If Ozai’s spirit was here instead, she likely would be. Neither of them hold the memories that their bodies should, they share no memories of their supposed union, they have no memories of raising their children, of seeing them grow.

Inside the forest, the conversation is no better. They walk in uncompanionable silence. He leads by a wide margin, but she never falls behind. 

“Weaklings.”

He ignores Ozai’s voice, pushing through the nature walk full of faces. 

They don't encounter the water-tribe brother and sister, Rafa and Misu, who he knows have haunted this forest for years. Like the spirits, they would blend into the world around them, like spirits they would only be found if they wanted it so.

Soon enough, the spirit pond is in view, perfectly flat, perfectly serene, perfectly spiritual. He feels his mother stop behind him, a far and wary distance separates them.

He touches the still pool of spirit water, muttering a quiet prayer to Agni. As soon as the final words leave his mouth, the water starts to fill with faces, quicker than the avatar could muster. 

The water swells, creating waves that break the mirror like sheen. The swell turns to a whirlpool, one which reverses to the sky. The water breaks into mist.

When the mist clears they can see the mother of faces. She is a terrifying spirit, a gigantic form of twisting roots and leaves, a body formed of nature. Her roots and branches twist, move, and constrict with a mind of their own, creating a chilling rumble of nature and the spirit world. This body is vaguely humanoid, as are most spirit’s, with nature forming a torso with long spindly arms, ending with long branch like fingers. She has five blank faces around one head, a pentagram of identity, each glow like the moon, pale and soft. Around her swirls thousands of phantom faces, moving like a whirlpool, each achingly unique. 

“Mother of faces.” Zuko reverently prays, looking up at the great being. His mother bows instead of words, the spirits are known to be volatile.

“I was warned that you would arrive.” The spirit says in her deep, rumbling voice.

Zuko panics, because the new information makes his mind spin uncontrollable, “Who sent me here.” He asks, begs, pleads. 

“I do not care to share that information.” The mother of faces bends over, so incredibly close to the face that is not his, “I know what you want, to restore the face of Ursa.”

“And what about mine?” He asks, weakly.

She stares at him, long and piercing even though she has no eyes to see out of, “Would you make the trade?” She asks. Zuko thinks to the world, to all he has to do, to the water tribes who still fear the wrath of the fire nation each day and each night. Even under the might of the moon, and beside the great waves, they feel weak and unsupported. The peace with the Earth kingdom is growing, but could still be shattered without careful care, without benevolence and vigilance. The air nomads are gone, and perhaps with how he has changed things, Katara will never break open the iceberg that contains the last one of their kind. They will never have a chance to rebuild, Aang will go on in his slumber for thousands of years to come.

“No.” He says, strongly. Bravely, like he isn’t sacrificing his own life to do so. Even if this was the last chance to return to his life, he would not take it. The unimaginable suffering that would continue isn’t worth it, isn’t worth his selfishness or his worthless little life. He mutters a silent apology to the child he may never see grow, to his firstborn. Izumi if the babe is a girl, Iroh if the child is male. He apologizes to Izumi, to Iroh, to Mai.

“Then that is the answer.” Zuko breathes out at the spirit’s words, looking down at his dirty hands. If he squints, they are blood, he knows that under everything, his hands are forever stained.

Mother of faces turns to the mother of Zuko, Azula, and Kiyi, “Human, do you wish to return to who you once were?” He turns to Noriko, knowing that this is the last time he will ever see this face, “Do you wish to remember?” the great spirit asks, delicate, as if talking to baby Kiyi, or to baby Izumi, Iroh.

“Yes.” His mother says, dooming the part of her that is Noriko to death. 

“Hold still.” Mother of faces reaches her hand out to his mother, slowly, wrapping her face in an enormous spirit hand.

The spirit’s hands envelop in a golden light, she screams, as if the Mother of Face’s was melting off Noriko to reveal what was underneath. He looks away, the scream rings out like his younger self’s did. They ring out endlessly. A thousand bells in his mind. But both end, both fade.

“Thank you Mother of Faces.” The Firelord kow-tows to the great spirit, humble and scared. He looks over to his mother, to Ursa, then back at the spirit, “But I beg of you, there are a brother and sister of the northern water tribe in this forest. Please, grant their wish next season.” He knows not to anger the spirit as Aang once had, he knows that their rules are law, that in the course of a human life a season is nothing compared to death.

“I remembered that as well, human. The siblings of the forest were healed long before you arrived.” She says, before staring right into his soul, “Spirits do not conceive of reality like your fragile human eyes.” He knows what she means, he knows that the mother of faces knows more than he ever will.

“Thank you.” Ursa lightly says, looking up to the great being.

The Mother of Faces returns to the pool as she had left it. Her arms of living trees are hidden by a spiral of water, which quickly grows to cover her entire body. The water falls back down, as it had never existed in the first place. No waves result of this, leaving the perfectly flat water just as before.

“Who are you?” He almost forgot that his mother was hearing that conversation, that she knows below the skin he isn’t Ozai. Zuko turns around to see the suspicious face of his mother, the uncovered emotions that she so skillfully hid from everyone just a moment ago. A skilled actress indeed.

“Do you want to know?” He asks, softly.

“How did you know where I was? Only Ozai knew I was alive, he didn’t even know where I went, he didn’t know I changed my face, my life.” She breathes deeply, trying and failing to calm herself down, “Did you take his memories when you took his face?”

Zuko forces himself to calm down as well, “I didn’t do this on purpose, his memories did not stay, no.”

“How did you know where I was?” Ursa accuses, glares as Mother of Faces did, but not to his soul. She glares at the skin, the skin of the man who abused her for years. Who she just now recognizes, who she fears.

Zuko’s mouth opens, trying to form a coherent response. All that leaves his mouth is a quiet plea, “Do you believe in time travel?” He asks, expecting nothing, expecting even less than that.

Zuko continues when his mother does not answer, looking right into her eyes, “Because I found you in the future, when Azula was already broken by her father.”

“I-h”

Zuko’s voice cracks, he feels little and young and weak, “No. It’s not your fault.” He tells his mother, because there’s nothing she could have done. Zuko made peace with that himself years ago, made peace with the fact he could have done nothing to help Azula either. They were children, they were so young, there's nothing they could have done to deserve that, but neither of them could do anything to stop it. 

“What about Zuko?”

Zuko himself finds that he cannot talk, his mouth is dry and his teeth are glued shut.

His mother panics, “What about my son?!” she asks, terrified. 

“He’s” Zuko barely manages the first word, hearing the sound of Ozai’s voice echoing in his head. But the Fire Lord cannot bear to lie, to hide, for nobody to know that his true face is not on the surface, “ ... me.”

His mother’s eyes go wide, “Zuko?” she asks, shocked. Zuko only nods, nods until his mother envelops him in a hug he thought he’d never feel again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I noticed some of you were interested in knowing what was happening with the Dai Li at the palace, if you want I can do a one shot sometime in the future concerning this series and the time skip in between these chapters. Tell me if y’all would like that!
> 
> (If so, I'll make this into a series, and if you want to catch the extra chapter, bookmark/subscribe to it.)
> 
> Anyway, I hope you all have a stunning day, a spectacular week, and an uneventful year.


	5. Ice and the Avatar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zuko travels to the southern water tribe to find the Avatar. This time, he isn't sixteen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter y'all, lets go.

“It is bold of you, Fire Lord, to board a ship with a master waterbender who you have wronged.”

Zuko looks over to Pakku, trying not to focus on the man he used to know, “You’re in the white lotus right? You know I am working for peace.” He looks out on the giant, icy sea, completely trusting in his safety. He doesn’t exactly know why he chose the Wani for the journey, just that something in his soul called out for it. He’s been listening more to superstition for the last few months.

“This is a sharp turn around for the man who burned off his son’s face.”

“Yes.” He admits, looking down at his hands. They are clean. He can accept that now. That does not mean he does not see the burnt skin of his own face under his palm, to know that he burnt a child. Nothing will stop that.

“Are you telling me one burnt child changed your mind when thousands of them never made you bat an eye?”

He does not say that the opposite is true, just staring out into the icy distance. Agni sets, and Tui rises. For the first time in years of his life, since that night he watched Zhao die, the moon is Tui and not Yue. “If the fire nation deemed it necessary, they would destroy the moon.” He admits, gazing at the moon while he softy admits such. I took him far too long to realize just that.

“Tui and La are necessary for your benders as well.”

“And the tides are important for the function of islands. I know that.” Zuko pauses, stands up and looks at Pakku with two working eyes. A vision of his father stands behind the northern water tribe master, Ozai’s cruel eyes staring into his soul. Zuko quickly looks away “If I believed In what we were doing, do you think I would be aiming for peace?”

“I would not put it past you.” Pakku pauses for a moment, “What do you want from me here?”

“Is peace not enough?” Zuko knows that the answer is no, that he could have signed treaties without the watery blades to his neck. So he tells the truth, not caring for justifying his knowledge, “There is a waterbender in the southern water tribe, she has little knowledge of the craft.”

“You want me to teach a woman the sacred art of combat?” With Zuko’s nod, he adopts icy anger, “Your women may fight, but that does not mean it is right. There is no morality to stain with firebending, but Tui and La are beacons of virtue.” The man’s voice is nearly a growl, “I will not poison a lady’s delicate form with combat, when they may nurture it with healing.”

“Then I will teach her myself, If that is what you would prefer.” He admits, because there is no world in which he would force Katara to learn on her own. Bending forms of firebending can be adapted to water, just as waterbending can be adopted for fire. 

“I would prefer if you did not teach her at all, Firelord. In fact, how dare you presume that you can teach the art of waterbending?”

“Oh look, we’re here.” Zuko says monotone, spotting the small community in the distance. Such gives him the justification to stop talking to Pakku, to not make anything worse. He knows how rude it is to presume to teach a waterbender the art of fire, but he cares about Katara more than he does about being rude.

Pakku leaves in a huff as the Wani approaches shore, guided carefully as to not damage the ice near the settlement. He tries his best to be a better man, and hopes the spirits smile upon him for it. He stays to look, as the members of the white lotus file out, leaving only the Firelord and the guards assigned to his protection. Non Benders.

Zuko leaves the ship as soon as waiting longer would be seen as rude. He descends the ramp slowly, watching the ground for people. To his dismay, there is no Sokka and Katara in sight.

Chief Hakoda greets him warmly, “Welcome Firelord, to the Southern Water tribe.” The other water tribe men around him regard Zuko warily. He’s so immeasurable glad that the raids on the southern water tribe ended with Azulon, if not, he would surely be buried in ice by now. 

“A decade of peace will transform your fortunes, Chieftain Hakoda, I promise you.” Zuko smiles, and lets his eyes see the future city instead, “The southern water tribe will be a force to reckon with.” The bustling town, prosperous and happy as was unknown for a century. Sokka and Katara smiling, children running around without a care in the world, beautiful structures in ice like their sister tribe.

“I hope so, shall we commence the negotiations?” They discuss the future of the southern water tribe with the fire nation. They criticize, observe, and eventually warm up to the plan they had in the last reality. 

Soon enough, when Agni is a blurry memory, the delegates return to sleep. The water tribe returns to their families, the visitors return to rooms on the Wani. Each side celebrates separately, many happily playing music under the cold night.

Zuko sneaks away from camp as soon as everyone else falls asleep, nothing but the clothes on his back. He can guide himself with flame, he can warm himself with flame, he can burn through icebergs with flame. He melts the snow around him, so that he does not awaken anyone with loud icy steps. 

“Ozai.” Zuko twists around, his uncle stands there, like a sentinel of the night. He wonders what awoke him, “Where are you going at such an hour?” Uncle asks, looking at him with scrutiny. 

Zuko finds his throat unwilling, and his mind blank. He speaks before he thinks, “To the avatar.” He announces, feeling so very childish, as if he was sixteen again, searching the southern water tribe. Uncle does not have the look at Zuko as he did on the Wani, he is simply confused, maybe frustrated, maybe angry.

“Nobody has seen the avatar for nearly a hundred years. You searched for himself, brother.” Zuko faintly realizes how little he ever knew about his Father. The fact that Ozai was never a man to him, a real person with hobbies, likes, and a history. He didn’t know, and something crawls in him at the thought.

“Uncle…” He mumbles, not catching himself in time. Breaking for the first time since he was here, in a way that makes his heart go into overdrive, his mind anxious and terrified.

“Father was Sozin’s only son.”

“Yes.” He faintly says, looking down at his hands, glowing softly but clean. Zuko looks back up with a façade of bravery, a thin shield that covers his heart. He looks at Uncle, mustering the courage he used with his father, he used on the eclipse. Zuko breathes in slowly, “In another lifetime, Zuko is banished after his Agni Kai. He finds the avatar three years into his banishment, when the last southern waterbender breaks open an iceberg to find him, unchanged for a hundred years. Avatar Aang.”

Words are pouring out of his mouth like water, running with the chilling cadence of Ozai’s voice, “Zuko chases the avatar, until Admiral Zhao tries to kill him. He almost gets killed at the north pole. The avatar destroys an entire fleet of fire nation ships with him there. Zhao tries to kill the moon.”

“With his Uncle, both of them traitors to the fire nation, they travel through the Earth Kingdom. Azula chases them down, tries to kill them. They stay in Ba Sing Se, until Azula takes over the city.” He pauses, thinks to the little girl who lights up at the sight of him. At the sight of Ozai. The girl who is not the Azula he knew, not anymore.

“Zuko betrays his uncle. He goes with Azula back to his father. The father that never loved him.” Ozai never held back from the truth in prison, making sure to remind Zuko of that fact daily. Zuko doesn’t regret visiting him so often, though that never made the words hurt less.

“He betrays his Father, running off to teach the Avatar Firebending. Together, they end the war, taking away Ozai’s bending. Zuko takes the throne at sixteen.” He stops there, because it hurts. He misses his life, the pain like a stab in the chest, like a burning hand to the face. He looks back down at his hands, knowing how much blood they held on that day.

Uncle interrupts his thoughts, “That is a very detailed vision.”

Something in Zuko breaks, “In another lifetime Zuko travels backwards in time.” He says, not daring to look his Uncle in the eyes. He looks to the snow at his feet, completely melted and slowly growing by the second. 

“Zuko?” Uncle asks, and there is something about hearing his name again. His mom knows, but once they reached the palace, she said his name no more. He knows why. He knows how the palace has ears. He knows that at any moment Azula could be hiding just around the corner. But as most things in his life, knowing why doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“Yes.” He feels his voice crack, “Uncle.” He nearly begs. 

“You should have told me earlier, Zuko.”

“Yes.” He tries to calm his beating heart, he tries to take deep breaths of the freezing air. He tries to conjure the spirit of the Fire Lord, “I should have.” he states, but does not justify it. He does not justify fear.

“I will always care about you nephew.”

Zuko steps back as his Uncle steps forward, he has a mission. He has a mission now and if he hugs his Uncle, he won’t be able to leave. The moon beckons him, tells him this day is right. Agni’s reflection warms his spirit, “I need to find the Avatar. I’ll be back.” His voice cracks, but Zuko does not pretend to be strong, “You’ll love him, Aang is an amazing person.”

“You do not need to go alone.”

Something screams in his head. The warmth of an absent sun turns to writhing fear all at once, like a firework. His head spins, his skin crawls, his heart beats like the drums of war. Below all, like the river under Caldera, he desperately wants not to be alone. But the unnatural warmth of the air contracts at the idea, leaving an icy chill that feels like loneliness. That feels greater than himself.

“I do.” 

With that he turns around, a swift pace. Uncle says no more, and Zuko does not look back at him. He follows the steps that Sokka once walked him through, to the very iceberg that they once found Aang in. He remembers that day, he remembers Sokka taking him sightseeing so that they didn’t have to watch Aang and Katara make out.

He never remembers Agni's blessing ever being this strong in the night before, enough that by warming himself, he melts the snow within a meter of himself. He can even see a slight glow coming from his skin, brighter than the snow’s reflection of the full moon. If he concentrates, closes his eyes and really thinks, he can feel the heat interact with the blistering cold outside of his little bubble. Like the feeling of putting a gloved hand in water. If Toph was here she would be proud he finally found out how to see with his bending, or she would punch him for not finding out sooner, he could never predict. 

His fire is easy, warm, controllable like his very limb. Some part of him, deeply buried, feels as if this is a reward. That his fire is happy, joyous because he trekked out alone. He tries not to think about it, knowing so soon he will see his uncle again, that he will be able to relax. 

The south pole is so much wider and grander in the night, a seemingly endless domain of water and ice. As potent as a volcano and spread as far as the largest desert. He can just barely make out the peak from which the iceberg should be visible. 

Perfect.

The trek to the next peak is difficult, just as he remembered, and boring, unlike last time. Strangely, with each step he can feel the fire burning under his skin more, as if the sun was rising. But like every firebender he can feel that the sun is near farthest it will be each night, a hundred degrees until sunrise. It itches, like nearly a decade ago when he didn’t firebend for months, trekking through an earth kingdom hostile to his kind.

He spots the very spot as soon as he reaches the zenith.

With a blast of fire Zuko launches himself a leagues length to the iceberg, lighting up the night sky like a shooting star. 

With a roll, he lands on the rocky ledge. He can’t see Aang inside the ice, but he knows it’s this one. 

With extra fire at his hands, Zuko blasts the iceberg with the heat of the Agni. He lets the fire consume him, the gift guide itself to the weakest, warmest cracks of the ice. Zuko sees in heat, pushes at where he can. His breathing slows and deepens. He is the fiery void. He is the Firelord, bending Agni’s gift as much as it bends him back. 

When Aang finally splits from the glacier, the light filling from the sky, Zuko’s world fills with white. Every feeling, sense, and thought fades until he is standing there in a plane of nothingness, looking at an endless white void.

Endlessly Nothing

Everything brightly shining

Though nothing at all

  
  


“Fire Lord Zuko…” Zuko snaps back at the title, twisting around to look at the being who just appeared behind him. It is about the same size as Appa, a large orb of bright light with the apparent ability to speak. “You did amazing, my champion.” 

“You were the one who brought me here.” He states, more detached than anything. Agni, shining bright even when there is nothing to shine upon. He does not know what to do in the presence of a god, the source of his bending, a being able to bend time as well.

“You saved the fates of two worlds,” they laugh, “most do not even save the fate of one. But you are special.”

“That is not an answer.”

“You have my thanks, my child.” The being shines upon him, holding him in warmth like a hug, “You have my eyes on you.”

“Why?”

“Agni is also a god of birth.” He thinks desperately to his own child, the baby was due in weeks from when he last saw Mai. He gets a frantic vision, a little girl holding his hand and smiling. Izumi. He’s having a daughter.

“What will happen to this world when I leave? Will Ozai return?” He takes a deep breath, sucking air through his teeth, “Was everything I did for nothing?” Because above all, Zuko would stay if leaving forced Ozai to return, the world is too fragile, the fire nation to new into kindness.

“Ozai died the moment your soul replaced his, when you leave, his body will die as well.”

Zuko stands, breathless, weightless, guiltless, “Thank you.” he whispers, humble in the sight of such a God. 

When he opens his eyes again, one of them is blurred.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of this story! If you want to catch more updates to the series (it might be a few weeks) then you should bookmark it or something, I'll probably add a few interim chapters. 
> 
> I hope you liked it, I'm glad I can make people's days a bit better. Have a stunning day, a magnificent week, and an uneventful year.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you like this story! I plan on updating it every few days, bookmark if you're interested in reading some more. Id love if you'd comment, it really makes my day.
> 
> If you have any writing prompts I'd love to hear them! I always love hearing new fic ideas.


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